Deep Waters
by ruefulgirl
Summary: Sam washes Dean's hair. WARNINGS for language and sexuality.


Dean's head hurt. Like, really.

It was still bleeding, too—so much so that he had to let Sam drive since the blood kept obscuring his vision by running into his eyes. And why the hell was his head _always_ getting sliced and diced? At least the brick-wielding ghoul had missed his face this time. If he got too many more bashes to the face, he was going to lose his good looks. Not that a huge, matted patch of shredded skin atop the crown of his head would do wonders for his social life.

Anyhow. The frickin' ghoul had been terrorizing a tourist resort in the Ozarks. A rather remote tourist resort with nothing cheaper than $200 a night motel rooms. There was no way in hell Dean was going to spend that much on a room, even if his brains were leaking out. Which they weren't.

He hoped.

By the time they found a decently priced motel it was 1:30 am, freezing cold, Dean's head was honest-to-God throbbing, and his muscles ached like nobody's business. And oh, yeah the liberal quantities of ghoul blood that the fucker had squirted all over him while dying had made him stink to high heaven.

Now, Sam on the other hand. Sam didn't have a drop of blood or smear of dirt on him. Anywhere.

Dean waited in the car, sulking like a very grumpy, blood-spattered three-year-old, while Sam went in to get them a room. When he came out and tried to help Dean out of the car, he got snarled at for his trouble.

The room was cold as a witch's tit. And it smelled like mildew. While Sam fiddled with the ancient room heater, Dean went straight into the bathroom and peeled his reeking clothes off. Then he stood around naked and shivering while the shower heated up, which must have taken a good ten minutes.

Once he got in and the goose bumps receded, the water started to feel good. Dean let his head fall back, groaning, as steam billowed up all around him, allowing the strong jet of water to massage away the aching in his muscles. Yeah, he appreciated a place with good water pressure. First good thing that had happened all night long. Other than the ghoul's death, that is. He stood there, swaying, as let the dirt, blood, and sweat sluiced off him, and ran a washcloth over his skin. Then, reluctantly, he put his head under the showerhead. This was going to hurt.

The sheer volume of his howl of pain, however, rather surprised him.

A moment later, Sam practically kicked the bathroom door in, wild-eyed. "Dean – what?"

Dean couldn't answer, though. He was too busy chanting, "Shit, fuck, shit, fuck, fuckin' shitty fuck--" and slapping his palm against the slick shower tiles to distract himself from the burning agony atop his head.

Suddenly the water was off and Sam was there, wrapping a towel around him and guiding him out of the shower, murmuring in that gentle way of his, "It's okay. The pain will be over in a minute. Move your hands and let me see."

Dean tried to slap him away, irritable. "Don't get all grabby on me, Dude."

But Sam didn't move – he just kept pulling at Dean's hands, all close and warm and concerned.

"Crap, Dean," he said when he finally got a good look at Dean's noggin. "The blood is all crusted in there. No wonder it hurts – you can't just stick your head in the shower and expect that to come out."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because it's matted and tangled and—what the hell? I think you've got chunks of dirt in the cut, too."

Great. That was just great.

Sam slung another towel around Dean's shoulders, patting him like he was some withered old grandpa, and said, "Wait here; I'll be right back."

"Wasn't planning on jogging around the block at 2:00 am," he muttered, drying himself off.

Sam returned in a minute, pushing a low-backed armchair into the bathroom. He positioned it in front of the sink, facing outward.

"What the hell is that for?" Dean asked.

Sam retrieved the shampoo from the shower and said practically, "Sit down. I'm going to clean out your wound."

"With shampoo?" Dean asked.

"It will work better than anything else. You've got, like, oily ghoul spooge all over your hair. It's pretty gross, Dude. God knows what kind of infection it could give you."

"_Ghoul_ _spooge … _?" Dean spluttered, then remembered the important thing. "I'm not a fuckin' invalid. I _don't_ need you to wash my hair."

Sam pursed his lips together. "Yes, as a matter of fact, you do. And you're going to enjoy it." He pointed at the chair. "Now, sit your ass down before I make you."

"Like you could," Dean retorted.

Sam simply raised an eyebrow at him.

All right, so maybe Dean wasn't in top form right now. His mouth, however. That was working just fine. "Look, I'll do it myself, Sam. Really, I appreciate the gesture--" NOT. "—but I've been able to wash my own hair for a lot of years now and I'd like to keep up the tradition."

"Dean, the cut could go all the way to the back of your head. You can't see back there."

"Now you're just being an alarmist, it's not that bad—"

"Dean."

"—I've had worse practically every other week. I managed to survive just fine without having you—"

"_Dean_."

"—fuss over me like a—"

Sam leaned over into Dean's face and enunciated very clearly, "Sit your ass down, Dean. NOW."

Dean was pretty sure he heard the window rattle from Sam's deep voice. Which made him raise his own voice. "I DON'T--"

Sam made himself relax with visible effort and said evenly, "Stop being a dickhead and just let me take care of you, okay?"

That stopped Dean in his tracks. Sammy was just worried about him. Not for any good reason, mind you, but that had never stopped him before. And Dean made a point of giving Sam what he wanted every now and again just to avoid a big emo scene.

He tied one of the towels off around his waist with unnecessary force and sat down in a huff.

"Come on," Sam said. "Lean back."

Dean obliged, banging his head on the hard porcelain. "Sorry," Sam said, and rolled up a hand towel to put beneath Dean's neck. "That better?"

Dean grunted in assent, the most civil response he could think of. He did _not_ like this. Not one damned bit. Lying here, head back, neck exposed and Sam fiddling around with the taps, trying to get the water the right temperature. Sam, entirely too close to him, eating up his personal space. Sam who still smelled like the aftershave he'd put on this morning and something else as well. Some sort of herb or something – rosemary, that was it. He must have brushed up against a bush when they were at the house with the ghoul-infested basement. And whatever. Was he having some sort of _Better Homes and Gardens _moment or something?

Sam looked down at him, exasperated.

"What?" Dean asked.

"Relax, would you?"

He almost snapped, "I am relaxed!" Except for his clenched jaw, ramrod-straight back, and rock-hard ass. Which, okay, so maybe Sam had a point. Dean took a deep breath, letting it out through his mouth in a slow exhalation.

What was the big deal, anyhow? He'd fought _demons_, for cryin' out loud. He should be able to relax enough to get his stupid hair washed.

Yeah, he should be able to, if Sam wasn't so close, and if his neck wasn't exposed. It made him feel … vulnerable. As a general rule he preferred walking three miles over broken glass in his bare feet to feeling vulnerable.

Sam filled a plastic cup with warm tap water and poured it carefully over Dean's scalp, avoiding the wound for now. With gentle, firm pressure, he slid his fingers into Dean's hair, caressing his scalp in little circles. The shampoo felt smooth and cool, soothing. Quickly, it grew into a thick, silky lather that surrounded him with the scent of coconut. He remembered making fun of Sam when he bought the shampoo for that very reason ("What are you, a girl, dude?"). But now, well now he kind of liked it.

Sam had one hand on either side of Dean's skull, long fingers warm against his neck, his fingertips pressing into tired muscles with just enough pressure to send shivers down Dean's spine.

Sam paused and asked, low and concerned, "You all right?"

It took Dean a moment to respond. "Huh? Oh, yeah – M'fine." His voice sounded slow, relaxed.

Okay, he could admit it. This felt good.

Damn, good. As in _damn_.

Sam started the soothing motion again, hands cradling Dean's skull in a way that made him feel both supported and … what was the right word? Cherished? Like he was the most important thing in the world. Like Sam wanted him to feel precious and loved.

The thought brought a rush of heat to his face, and shame to his stomach. He wasn't—God, he knew better than anyone that _he_ wasn't special. The mere thought of it felt like knives in his gut. Now, Sam – Sam was special. He had never questioned that. The knowledge of it lay deep in his bones, deep as the marrow.

Sam poured another glass of water over Dean's scalp in a warm wave, this time over the wound. But unlike before, there was no pain, just gentle wetness. Sam dabbed a wet washcloth over the wound with infinite, studious tenderness. He leaned close, eyes fixed on the task. Dean smelled the sweat on him, felt the near heat of his skin. Dean let his eyes slide shut, trying to alleviate the burning exhausted sting of them. Sam worked in silence for a long moment, then said with an edge of fondness, "You're an ass, you know."

Dean opened one eye.

"Jumping in front of that ghoul the way you did. You're lucky he just hit your head and not anything important."

"Ha ha."

"Seriously, dude. I'm not five years old any more, in case you haven't noticed. I can take care of myself."

"Then why are you getting choked every time I turn around? I mean, what do you expect? I saw that ghoul coming for you, hands outstretched, and I thought: _here we go again_. Wasn't really counting on him picking up that brick."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sam said. "Tell it to the judge."

"Is it going to need stitches?" Dean asked. He hoped not. There wasn't much he enjoyed less than having Sam stick a needle into his head.

"Nah, doesn't look like it. The bleeding's stopped, but I've still got some cleaning to do."

They fell quiet for a long while, then, as Sam worked with infinite care and patience. Dean began to notice, in the stillness, the rhythmic thump of his own heart, the quiet sounds of Sam's breath, the concentrated way he worked, his lower lip caught under his teeth. The sight of Sam's lips brought to the surface long buried memories. Sam at seventeen, young and innocent and beautiful. Sam standing in front of the sink, razor held awkwardly as Dean guided his hands, teaching him how to shave.

Dean remembered the sudden passion that had overcome both of them, remembered kissing his brother, sucking those plump young lips, feeling his smooth skin, taking his hard, heavy cock into his mouth and sucking—

It had been a fluke, something that happened a couple of times, then no more. Afterward, Dean had felt as guilty as hell, and Sam, well, Sam was so distracted by school and fighting with Dad that screwing his brother didn't hold much appeal. Which Dean understood. And truthfully, it was a bit of a relief to have it over. Soon, Sam left for college and this hadn't been an issue since he'd come back.

And Dean sure as hell wasn't going to mess up Sam's life by making it an issue now.

He closed his eyes again, willing the interested twitching in his cock to subside, focusing his attention on his head, on the feel of Sam's fingers, the gliding and stroking and healing.

So. Here he was, not thinking about Sam's hands. And not thinking about his dick. Because he had no business combining the two of those in his mind.

Then Sam put his hand on Dean's dick.

Sam put his _hand_ on Dean's _dick. _

Which couldn't really be happening. Because … well, just how hard did he get hit on the head, anyhow?

Sam didn't move his hand, and Dean grew shock still. This, apparently, wasn't a hallucination. Or, an accident on Sam's part.

He jerked to his feet, spluttering, "What the fuck, Sammy? I mean – what the fuckity _fuck_?"

"I want …" Sam said, looking flushed. "Well, isn't it obvious what I want?"

"No, you don't!" Dean cried, rather frantically.

"You don't know what I want," Sam said.

"Yes, I do. I'm the older brother, remember? And you don't want this. Not really. I mean, before … that was, before. We don't do that anymore."

"You don't get to tell me what I want. And I want you. I want you to know – you don't _know_ it, Dean." Sam had that pleading, desperate look on his face.

Oh, God. Sometimes, living with Sam was like having a chick around 24/7. Only it made him crazier. "Know what?"

"That you're worth it. Dad's sacrifice. My loyalty, my . . . love. You're the best man I know, Dean. But you – you seem to think you're a piece of trash. I mean there you were, again today, throwing yourself in front of me to take that ghoul's blow."

Dean shifted around uncomfortably. "Jesus, Sammy, you don't have to do me to try to prove something to me. Or because you feel guilty—"

"I don't. I just—Look, can't it just be because I want to?" Sam asked quietly.

Dean looked at him, stunned. After an uncomfortable moment, in which it was all he could do to breathe, he said, "Do you?"

"Yeah," Sam said earnestly. "All these years, all you do is take care of me. I want to take care of you for once. I want to make you feel good."

Dean snorted and tried to talk without his voice cracking, didn't quite make it. "What? You couldn't just buy me a bottle of Jack at the gas station?"

Sam gave a little smile. "Yeah, I guess I could have. This seemed like a better alternative, though."

Then Sam moved toward him again, and Dean moved back until his back was against the wall, but Sam kept coming, the bastard, he just kept coming until his whole body was pressed up against Dean's, all long hard warm length. Dean couldn't quite help his hands coming up to rest on Sam's hips as Sam leaned his head forward and mouthed Dean's neck, kissing and nipping slowly. "It's all right, Dean," he said in a low rumble against Dean's skin. "If you don't want this, just say something and I'll stop."

The connection between Dean's voicebox and his brain apparently malfunctioned, because now Sam's hand was back on Dean's dick through his pants, and instead of Dean pushing him off, he bucking up into his brother's hand, breathing hard.

When, after concentrated effort, Dean could speak again, the words he knew he should say, "no" and "stop" and "this is fucked up" became "yes" and "don't stop" and "fuck me."

And afterward.

Well, afterward, he said them again.

End


End file.
